He didn’t say anything, but he looked furious. And all Honoria could think was, Why? What on earth did he have to be so angry about? She was the one who was in love with a man who clearly thought of her as a burden. A burden with whom he had a pleasant friendship, but still, a burden. Even now he was still guided by his stupid promise to Daniel, scaring away gentlemen whom he deemed inappropriate.

If he wasn’t going to love her, then at least he could stop ruining her chances with everyone else.

“I’m leaving,” she declared, because she simply could not take it any longer. She didn’t want to see him, and she didn’t want to see Daisy, or Iris, or her mother, or even Mr. Bridgerton, who was off in the corner with his lemonade, being charming to Felicity Featherington’s older sister.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t see that it was any of his business.

She left the room without a backward glance.

Bloody hell.

Marcus would have liked to have chased Honoria right out of the room, but nothing would have caused a bigger scene. He would also like to have thought that no one had noticed their argument, but Colin Bridgerton was smirking in the corner over his glass of lemonade, and Lady Danbury had that I-am-all-knowing-and-all-powerful look on her face that Marcus normally disregarded.

This time, however, he had a sinking suspicion that she had somehow orchestrated his downfall.

Finally, when the annoying Mr. Bridgerton raised his bandaged paw in mock salute, Marcus decided he had had enough, and he strode out the same door through which Honoria had exited. To hell with the gossips. If anyone noticed that they had both left and wanted to make a fuss over it, they could bloody well demand that Marcus propose marriage.

He had no problem with that.

After searching the garden, the drawing room, the music room, the library, and even the kitchens, he finally found Honoria in her bedroom, a location he forced his mind to disregard. But he’d spent enough time at Winstead House to know where the private apartments were, and after he’d gone through every other bloody room in the house, well, did she really expect that he wouldn’t find her there?

“Marcus!” she nearly shrieked. “What are you doing here?”

Apparently, she had expected that he wouldn’t find her here.

The first words out of his mouth were the absolutely ill-advised “What is wrong with you?”

“What is wrong with me?” She sat up quickly on her bed, scooching her body toward the headboard rather like a crab. “What is wrong with you?”

“I’m not the one who stormed out of the party to go sulk in a corner.”

“It’s not a party. It’s a musicale.”

“It’s your musicale.”